


that's amore!

by ophelianipples



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4285629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophelianipples/pseuds/ophelianipples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a tourist on an Italian beach and meets Italian!Derek, language barrier, sexual tension, etc</p><p>this is all i've written so far and I'm on holidays, but i want to finish it and I HAVE FAITH OKAY</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's amore!

Stiles floats on his back, staring up at the clear blue sky. He's still having trouble absorbing the fact that he's here, on the coast of Italy, just floating around in absolutely fucking pristine blue water, mountains on the horizons, and probably most surreal of all - basically _nobody_ in the water. Italians apparently don't care much for actually being in the water, so it's basically Stiles and a bunch of kids with the whole sea to themselves. The beach is covered with people basking in the sun, making Stiles's 'tourist' status very obvious in comparison to their carefully maintained tans.   
  
Stiles sighs contentedly and starts treading water again. His eyes wander back to the beach, watching idly as a (fucking smoking hot) local argues with a seedy looking dude who is holding - oh _shit,_ that's Stiles's _bag._ With his phone, and his wallet, and his map and basically _everything he needs to survive this holiday holy shit -_ Stiles flounders in the water for a moment before remembering how to swim. He's too far away to get to the two men in time, _god fucking dammit why is it so hard to run through water???_  
  
_So stupid, shouldn't have brought valuables to this fucking beach,_ he thinks as he tries to run up the beach, his feet throwing sand up everywhere and all _excruciatingly slow,_ people giving him dirty looks as he flails past them. When he gets close enough he yells out "hey!" and catches a glimpse of the hot guy's intimidating glare before tripping over his own feet and collapsing into the sand with a groan. He's seriously fucked. And covered in sand.  
  
"Hello?" Stiles feels something poke at his ribs. He cracks an eyelid, resigned to his fate as the dumb tourist who lost all his stuff at the beach and now has no idea how to get back to his hostel.  
  
Instead, fate gives him an eyeful of stupidly sexy, tanned Italian man. The man looms over him, the glare of the sun acting like a halo, which is appropriate because _he's holding Stiles's bag,_ aka he may actually be a guardian angel. And, yeah, in hindsight he didn't exactly look as if he was in cahoots with that seedy guy. A few angel related pick up lines run through Stiles's head before he realises he's just gaping in disbelief while the man looks increasingly concerned.   
  
"Uh… ciao!" He rolls and sits up in the sand - and, ugh, he's covered in it now - and offers his hand for a handshake. The man promptly rejects him by putting his bag against his palm.  
  
"Your… borsa," the man says, looking frustrated.  
  
"Uh, yes, sì, my bag" Stiles can feel himself blushing in embarrassment as he grabs the bag. Holy God this is awkward. "Um, grazie, grazie _mille,"_ he continues. He desperately wishes he knew how to say 'can i buy you a drink' in Italian _._ Especially when he stands up and the guy is a little shorter than him, with a shock of dark hair and nice neat stubble, and piercing hazel-green-gold eyes and perfect abs and Stiles just wants to be _all over that._  
  
The man's eyebrows go a little less frowny. "Non preoccuparti," he says, and oh no, he's smiling, and Stiles is gaping again because that's what happens when attractive people are nice to him.   
  
The guy isn't moving away or even breaking eye contact, and Stiles doesn't know what to do, so he does for the handshake again. "Uh... mi chiamo Stiles," he says, and thankfully the guy understands and takes his hand in a firm grip, with his nice broad hands, he really has nice _everything,_ doesn't he? It's unfair. But that's a train of thought that Stiles needs to abandon _right now._  
  
_"_ Mi chiamo Derek," the guy says, smile widening into something more toothy, and if Stiles didn't know _better,_ almost flirty.   
  
The guy is not flirting. He's not.  
  
"Derek," Stiles repeats, "not very Italian, is it?"  
  
Derek looks confused and shrugs, and hey, perks of the language barrier? He doesn't understand the stupid shit that comes out of Stiles's mouth.   
  
Stiles starts to pull his hand away from the handshake, and his heart seriously almost jumps out of his throat when Derek doesn't let go, instead taking hold of his wrist and turning his palm to face upwards. Smiling to himself this time (okay, fuck, come on, whose eyelashes are that pretty?), Derek starts to brush sand of Stiles's hand. He's probably just being friendly though, Stiles's hand is pretty fuckin' sandy. And, uh… he loses track of this thoughts, feeling a little detached from reality as Derek brushes sand from his forearm and bicep, slowly, so slowly. Seriously, Stiles has participated in less arousing foreplay.  
  
Finally Derek takes hold of his elbow and nods his head back towards where Stiles's towel is. Stiles makes a conscious effort to close his mouth, surprised to find he didn't actually start drooling. He can't (and doesn't want to) do anything but follow Derek and his perfect ass wherever they go.   
  
He may be in trouble here. 


End file.
